


please don't make any sudden moves

by wariangle



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-18
Updated: 2017-03-18
Packaged: 2018-10-07 07:57:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10355742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wariangle/pseuds/wariangle
Summary: For a fraction of a second she considers ignoring it and just keep walking past it, out of all of this shit. Bear is dragging a little on the leash and it would be so easy to give him a little more reign and just walk past the ringing phone and never look back. It has taken enough from her already. She’s done. It’s done.But Shaw is a good soldier. She always has been. And what else is really left to her at the point, anyway?She picks up the phone. The handle feels heavy in her hand.“Hello, Sameen.”





	

Out of some ingrained reflex, Shaw slows down a little as she catches sight of it. The pay phone. She shakes her head at herself, but just as she quickens her step and passes by it rings, the sound seemingly echoing in the brittle autumn air. She pauses. For a fraction of a second she considers ignoring it and just keep walking past it, out of all of this shit. Bear is dragging a little on the leash and it would be so easy to give him a little more reign and just walk past the ringing phone and never look back. It has taken enough from her already. She’s done. _It’s_ done.

But Shaw is a good soldier. She always has been. And what else is really left to her at the point, anyway?

She picks up the phone. The handle feels heavy in her hand.

“ _Hello, Sameen_.” There’s a brief pang of exhilaration in her chest at the sound of Root’s voice, at the lightning-flash fast, instinctual thought of _she is alive_ that she just can’t seem to shake. But it’s just an approximation, a ghost in the machine. A whisper.

“What do you want?”

Instead of giving her a number, the machine rattles of an address. Good. Shaw is not in the mood to play at its usual nerd shit.

“You got a car for me?”

“ _Look to your left, up that alley_.”

Shaw does and grins, widely.

“Would that work for you?”

“Yes.”

The unattended Harley parked at the corner of the street is a thing of beauty, and it’s parked right on the side of one of those lame-ass places where people can leave their dogs to get pampered. Bear gives her a betrayed look as she leaves him to get bathed and combed and she pats his head in apology and silently vows to bring him the biggest bone she can find when she picks him up.

“Oh, you know exactly what I like,” Shaw mutters as the machine roars to life between her legs after she’s hotwired it like it’s nothing. She doesn’t know who she intends to say it to, Root or the Machine. She has no interest in probing at that particular wormhole. She bursts out on the heavily trafficked street, the bike purring like a well-groomed cat under her.

 

The address is just one block away from one of Shaw’s weapon stashes. She waits it out, tries to see if anything is about to give, but when an hour of surveillance has given her nothing, she sighs.

“I’m so fucking sick of the games,” she says out loud and steps off the bike, stomps off to the apartment block in which she rents a small locker under a fake name. It’s small cache and she cleans it out, jams the guns and the rifle in a shuffle bag and throws it over her shoulder.

“What now?” she asks and the phone she swiped from an unsuspecting passerby back downtown flashes. It’s another address.

“Great.”

 

It’s a wild goose chase – there’s no other word for it. Shaw drives from one corner of the city to the next, picking up one nonsensical item after another. A black robe, a wig, a locked box, computer stuff.

“Are we stopping for pizza next?” Shaw asks the night air as the phone buzzes in her pocket.

It’s another address, but this time it’s accompanied by a name. J. Lovelace.

 

Whoever the hell that is, she isn’t well off. The Machine has lead her to an abandoned residential area where derelict building huddle together under the grey sky, as if afraid to be struck down by a heavy rainfall. The perfect place for suspicious activity, in other words – anything that would go down here all but off the radar.

She pulls up in front of a mostly intact apartment building and shuts of the engine, takes of her helmet. She waits, three heartbeats. Everything seems quiet, but as she steps off the bike she draws her gun anyway. Shaw prefers safe a whole lot better than sorry.

She moves slowly up the stairs to the entrance and kicks at the door. It opens – the lock is broken – and she steps inside gun first. She checks the residence list on the wall, not really expecting to find anything, but it’s there: _Lovelace, J. Floor 7, apartment C_ , in neat black letters, as if everything just kept falling apart but the super made sure to keep updating the residency lists.

She very much doubts the elevator’s functional so she takes the stairs, gun held out before her all the way.

When she reaches the right floor and stops in front of the door marked by a “C” she spends a second debating whether to knock on the door or just kick it open. She settles for the later. She may have an all-seeing A.I. on her side, but no warm bodies for back-up – she could use the element of surprise.

The wood around the lock splinters easily from the force of her kick and the door swings inward hard, hitting a wall with a heavy thump. She moves inside, eyes tracking from left to right to clear the hall. She glances into the bathroom. Empty. She moves inward, the arm holding up the gun beginning to feel numb from the weight, and turns a corner into the living room, eyes flicking from corner to corner, to…

“Hello, Sameen.”

Shaw blinks. Her gun doesn’t waver, even as it is pointed straight at Root. She is reclining on the couch beneath a fuzzy blanket, smiling softly, as if she’s been expecting Shaw to storm in, kick her door down and wave a gun in her face. And knowing her and her infernal machine, she probably has.

Shaw lowers her weapon slowly without looking away from Root. Her smile widens into that way she has of smiling with her whole face lit up, as if Shaw is the best thing she has seen all year. Truth be told, it’s a bit nauseating.

Something dark moves inside Shaw at the sight of her, of _Root_ , wriggling sickly inside that hollow point in her chest that was gouged there the day Root died. It’s that familiar anger, fury rising inside her like a tide in her blood. She doesn’t know quite at what, but it’s there, undiluted by any happiness or relief at seeing Root alive.

“Why?” she asks flatly and Root’s smile blinks out, as if it never was.

“To save the Machine,” Root says calmly. “Who do you think protected it’s hidden code, helped it re-upload?”

Shaw looks away. “And you knew it would Harold would go off the rails, seal your plan.”

“Yes.” Root stretches her legs out and gets up from the couch. She moves slowly and carefully, evidently mindful of her almost-lethal wound. Shaw imagines that moment in the car, the Machine watching and calculating every minute detail of the situation and instructing Root exactly when, how and where she would get shot in order for it to be deep enough and bleed enough to appear convincingly fatal while still avoiding any irreparable damage. It’s a calculation Shaw herself could have made, if she’d had to – albeit not quite as accurately – and not for the first time she feels a strange kinship with the Machine.

Root comes to stand in front of Shaw, looking down at her with such softness in her eyes that Shaw has to firm her resolve to avoid looking away. Facing down the barrel of a gun would be preferable.

“I’m sorry that you had to think I was gone,” Root says quietly. She reaches up and touches Shaw’s cheek for a second before her hand drops again.

“I guess it makes us even,” Shaw says.

Roots looks drawn and pale, the flesh of her bare arm pimpling in the chill air.

“You look like shit,” Shaw says. “Sit back down.” She pulls the blanket off the couch, wraps it around Root’s shoulders as she does as she says. “I’m not gonna have you survive a bullet only to die from a cold.”

Root smiles again, softly.

“I’m still pissed at you,” Shaw tells her.

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Root says and Shaw has to turn away as she shakes her head so that Root won’t see the small, reluctant smile she can’t subdue at that.

“You have any food here?” Shaw asks. Barring the fries she stole from Fusco, she hasn’t eaten in hours and she needs some sustenance. “Your robot overlord didn’t schedule me a dinner break.”

“Did a special grocery run just for you,” Root says.

“Oh yeah? At the farmer’s market right around the corner?” Shaw asks noncommittally as she crosses over the floor and into the kitchen. Halfway to the refrigerator she changes her mind and backtracks into the living room. Bending over the back of the couch, she wraps a hand around Root’s jaw and kisses her deeply, sliding their tongues filthily together, biting down hard on Root’s bottom lip as she pulls away. Root falls back against the cushions, breathing hard through her half-open mouth, lips glistening from Shaw’s saliva, her eyes wide.

Shaw grins at her and goes to make herself a sandwich.

 

Shaw has just swallowed her two gigantic sandwiches down with half a bottle of beer when there is a sound in the hallway, followed by a, “What the fuck.”

Shaw has her gun out before she’s even up from the couch and when the intruder – a blonde woman, armed with a beautiful piece of machine gun – rounds the corner she already has her dead between the eyes.

“Frankie,” Root says, standing up. “This is Shaw. Shaw,” she turns towards Shaw and touches her elbow, “this is Frankie.”

Frankie drops her weapon at the mention of Shaw’s name. Shaw does not do the same.

“This is who helped you pull all of this off?” she asks.

“The Machine provides,” Root says.

“It sure does,” Shaw says sourly, eyes tracking over Frankie. She’s hot, and for some reason Shaw doesn’t particularly like the thought of her and Root being holed up her for weeks together, even if she seems more than capable of protecting Root in her state of vulnerability.

Root snorts.

Shaw finally lowers her weapon and grabs her beer off the coffee table before slumping back down on the couch. “Any more associates I should know about?” she asks Root.

Root tips her head from side to side. “A few,” she says. “The Machine has started calling in favors, it seems.”

“Yeah, we noticed,” Shaw says.

Frankie is still looking at her dubiously but finally moves enough to sit down on one of the low stools on the other side of the room.

“So, what’s the plan? What is it our beloved Machine wants us to do this time?”

“What we’ve always done,” Root says. “Help people.”

Shaw takes another swig of beer. “Lucky I didn’t dump my arsenal when the Machine went down, then,” she says evenly.

 

Shaw borrows Frankie’s car to pick up Bear and when she comes back she drags Root into the bathroom with her to check on her wound.

“I had one of the best surgeons in New York patch me up,” Root says, but lets Shaw pull her shirt up and lift the gauze anyway. “Nothing compared to your healing touch, though, of course.” She smiles and Shaw looks away, down at the injury.

The wound is healing nicely, but Root’s side is thickening with scar tissue and the damage goes deep. At least it’s free from infection and the stitches have all come out, so all Shaw does is re-bandage it.

When she straightens, Root is looking at her with that half-smile and those soft eyes and for a moment reality glitches, 7,701 versions of that look flashing behind Shaw’s eyes, and something terrible surges in the pit of her stomach. _This place could be blown_ … _Samaritan_ …

She blinks.

Samaritan is gone.

Unless this is just another simulation, sicker than all the rest taken together.

“Shaw?”

Her hand is still resting on Root’s bandaged side. Root was never injured in any of the simulations. She was never gone. _You were my safe place_.

She looks up at Root. “I’m okay.”

Suddenly she wants her so fucking much, wants to push her up against the fall and rip her clothes off, map her entire body with her tongue and fuck her until she screams. She wants to be covered in Root’s scent, in the taste of her, in marks from her teeth. It’s been so long.

“I missed you too,” Root says, hand drifting up Shaw’s arm to cup her neck, to squeeze it.

Shaw closes her eyes, leans into the touch. Root bends forward to rest their foreheads together and her lips find Shaw’s, gently, carefully, as if silently asking permission. Shaw opens her mouth against her, breathes harshly in, and kisses her roughly, eradicating any softness between them.

Root lets out a quiet gasp and her head falls backward as Shaw’s mouth leaves her for her neck. She whimpers at the bite of Shaw’s teeth, the hotness of her breath. She licks at the sharp jut of her collarbone, dips her tongue between her breasts, recalling with a hot stab of passion, the taste of her nipples hardening against her lips, the way the skin of her breasts bruised to easily, beautifully, from her teeth.

“I want to fuck you,” Shaw murmurs into Root’s ear, following up her words with a sharp nip to her earlobe and Root groans, arching into her, hands scrabbling to hold on to Shaw’s shoulders, fingers grabbing at hard muscle.

Shaw catches Root’s hips in her hands and grinds forcefully into her. “Later,” she mumbles, voice rough, against Root’s neck. “When you can handle what I’m gonna give you.”

“Hm.” Root cups her face, brings her head up to kiss her again. “And here I was, about to offer you a tour of my bedroom.”

Shaw grins helplessly at that, a testament to how much she’s missed Root.

“Let’s go,” she says. “You need sleep.”

Shaw carries Root to bed. It’s awkward because she’s short and Root’s legs are too long, but it doesn’t matter in the slightest. When Root is under the covers, Shaw strips out of her jacket and Root wolf-whistles delightedly.

Shaw gives her an impassive look, but Roots only spreads her hands in a _what can I do?_ -gesture. She’s ridiculous.

Shaw settles on ignoring her antics as she pulls her pants off and crawls beneath the covers, laying down on the side, facing Root but with a foot of space between them.

“Wanna snuggle?” Root asks.

“…no.”

Root’s smile widens. “Come here, baby,” she whispers, pulling Shaw to her. She tucks Shaw’s head under her chin and arranges their bodies together, Shaw’s knee pressed between Root’s legs, taking her hand and weaving their fingers together.

“Tell your Machine it owes me IHOP pancakes tomorrow,” Shaw mumbles. “An extra large serving. The chocolate chip ones.”

Root huffs. “Giving me back wasn’t enough of a favour?”

Shaw fingers tighten around Root’s and she feels Root responding to even that small touch, knows how wet she probably already is, how hungry, can feel it in the way she presses up against her.

Shaw kisses her, smooth and wet, lips slipping from her mouth up her cheek messily, until she’s close enough to whisper silkily in the ear with the cochlear implant, “If the Machine ever think about sacrificing you again, I’ll smash it to pieces.”

“You can’t smash code, sweetie,” Root says with a fond sigh, but Shaw feels the whole-body shudder from the way Root’s body is all tangled up with hers, feels how her heartbeat goes a little haywire, can taste it in the kiss Root presses to her lips, how she doesn’t mind Shaw’s declaration.

They fall asleep like that and when they wake in the morning, there are no pancakes – only Frankie frying bacon in the small, shitty kitchen – but it is what it is.

The fire alarm goes off from Frankie’s breakfast attempts – apparently one thing’s functional in this dump – and over the beeping, Frankie’s cursing and the crunch of plastic as Frankie tears the alarm out, Root says, “Four alarm fire,” with the most annoyingly satisfied grin in the world and Shaw groans and elbows her in the ribs on her good side.

**Author's Note:**

> come say hi on [tumblr](http://wariangle.tumblr.com/)!


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